Troubled minds & worrisome happenings
by bloodymary2
Summary: [Paraguay revisited] You know it is real and happening, but all you can do is watch as disaster strikes. And wonder how to make it all better, even as his hands slips from yours. HARM/MAC, rate T for now.
1. The torture

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these wonderfully complex characters. This story, born from my imagination, is not meant to be anything but unprofitable praise to the creators of the show. Don't sue.

**A/C:** Some stories take planning and long reviewing and lots of editing. Some sneak up on you and demand to be written. This story started as the latter. Hopefully, it'll continue that way. All praise, comments and constructive criticism are appreciated and welcome.

My premise is Paraguay and self explanatory. If you get confused, keep reading; all issues will be addressed.

Enjoy!

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_**TROUBLED MINDS & WORRISOME HAPPENINGS**_

by Bloodymary2

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There is always that moment, during a dire situation, when sounds get muffled, colors fade and time slows down to a crawl. Logically, you know that the world around you is not any different. Your perception is so altered, though, that logic has no place in your thoughts or in the way you see your surroundings.

So, the steps that are taken feel heavy, the people around you move slowly and the words being spoken, being shouted, being thrown at you lose all meaning. You know what they mean, need not hear them to understand that the clock in already in a sluggish, desperate crawl towards the end. You see the pitiful shack, feel the steady arms carrying you there. You notice the wires, the water pooling on the floor, the shackles on the table. You take it all in, fear you swore would never be admitted to, more real than anything you have ever experienced before.

It is not happening as slowly as it seems to you and there is no time to react, to fight back, to beg for some sort of salvation. So, you don't say anything. Your struggles against the arms that hold you are in vain. When the straps are secured and you find yourself more hopelessly incapable of escaping your fate than you were before, your focus narrows even more and all you see is the roof made of straw and all you hear is the thundering echo of your heart battering your inner chest.

The moment before it all came to a head.

The moment before your world comes to an end.

Even if you survive, even if by some miracle, you manage to escape this situation, there is no doubt about the shriveled, broken mess you will be. How can one go back to normal after the mental torture of hearing your companion's screams and being unable to do anything to save him? How do you return to your former routine after having your body electrocuted to the point beyond even pain?

You know death seems preferable to that.

And yet, you don't want to die. No one, really, wants to die. Not like this.

Your muscles tense in anticipation to the pain. Your mind steels against the questions that will be asked, the secrets not meant to be spoken. The attempt is futile and you don't fool yourself into believing that you will ever be prepared to face the reality that has become your own.

But the pain doesn't come as you expected it to and the air that rushes into your aching lungs tells you that you had forgotten to breathe. The world that was small and contained expands again, the sounds no longer muffled hurt your ears, the smell of gunfire and blood catches you by surprise. It is beyond your understanding why you turn your head to the opening of the shack. Your eyes settle and refocus and for a moment you believe they are deceiving you. For what you see cannot be real. Who you see cannot be there, holding a gun and looking at you with such cold, calculating eyes.

_Harm..._

His name never reaches your lips, but it sounds loudly in your mind and the muscles in your body release some of the tension. He cannot be real and there and saving your life and your mental sanity. Still, you are relieved and you don't care that it is a trick of your mind, drawing you in deeper into the abysm that is madness.

His hands feel real, though, as they release your arms. Instinct - the survival kind and the trained kind all mixed together - make you move. You hand reaches for a gun of your own, your eyes scan for any more enemies lurking about. You ask about your hurt companion. You follow your savior to safer grounds.

It is all becoming real, him being there and you accept it. Right now, you are not interested in knowing why and how and any of the details you realize would have been important to the person you were before. All that matters is that he is there, by your side, where he belongs.

Your mind is still slow, sluggish to be more precise and it seems that reality reaches your consciousness with a serious delay. Some other part of your being is running the show and you only watch as it happens.

And wonder how it could have all gone so very, very wrong.

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More soon!


	2. The running

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay. I wrote this and then I was not satisfied with it. And then I had to argue with myself, because the writing wanted to leap forward in time and I wanted to focus a little more in Paraguay before dealing with the aftermath.

Hopefully, more soon.

Kudos and lots of love to my beta, Alix33.

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**CHAPTER 2**

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Time is irrelevant.

You have lost all track of time and it is something that hardly ever happens to you. The seconds don't register, the minutes don't tick and the hours fly by. It is scary, in a way, to be so lost. And it is also freeing. Keeping up with the current time would make it all too real, too painful, too final. You're still not sure that you are entirely in sync with reality and the reality you see seems too warped to be anything but a state of fugue. Yes, that is it. The Marine in you has sounded the bell of retreat and the crazy unconscious part of your brain has taken over.

It was all some sort of dream.

The bullets firing from the heavy gun in your hand don't really sound as loud as you hear it. The force of the compensating blast on your shoulder make you feel fragile and not at all like the strong Marine you really are. The two bodies that fall to the ground as you fire and run are not real people, with real families and real names. They are the terrorists. The enemy. The non-defined force that has driven you into madness.

Harm pulls your free hand and you find yourself veering to the left. A strange sound zooms by your ear and your hair is taken in by the sudden breeze. You can't be completely sure, but it seems really possible that a bullet almost became a very unwelcome guest in the matter that is grey and thinks and hides in your head.

You don't feel scared.

You should be scared.

Another round of fire and then nothing. It is all silent, except that it is not. You are in the middle of a jungle and the trees hide bugs and animals and squiggly types of being you were never very fond of. They all make noise. Your feet on the grass, the wide blouse fabric you wear, Harm's breathing, your pounding heart. It is loud, you realize. The silence is loud.

And painful.

Now that you are no longer running, or dodging fire or about ready to be electrocuted, your own weight feels heavy. The large prosthetic masquerading as your very pregnant belly is uncomfortable and much too hot. Your hair sticks to the back of your neck. Your lungs refuse air. When Gunny comes into view and moves aside long enough to show Webb sitting in the car, you find focus. You don't know why. All else is blurry and unreal and nothing you care to think about. But Webb is there, alive and hurt because of you. He needs you to be strong. So you are strong and sure and see nothing else.

Seeing him like that makes your heart constrict and you wonder if it is guilt, or love, or instinct or any other feeling you cannot properly name, but that would explain perfectly how exactly you feel. Thinking is hard. Thinking can mean you have to process all that you have been through. So you don't think.

His skin beneath your hand is trembling and makes your throat dry. His eyes are haunted, yet satisfied and maybe it is gratitude or maybe it is love that blossomed. All you know is that your lips find his and the kiss is cold. Is he cold or are you the one without any heat? Webb kisses you back and it makes your actions reasonable. His faltering life for yours. The world is more focused after you pull back and it is real strength that courses through your veins and makes you stand taller.

Webb gave you life again.

Harm comes around the hood and into your line of vision. Guilt, pain, a hammer bruising at your heart. Being in his presence is overwhelming. You pull back from Webb without being aware of it and that makes you angry. Harm did not suffer as you have, cannot understand what you have been through. He waltzed in at the last minute and hasn't a scratch to show for it. He is whole.

You don't feel whole.

Not anymore.

Your heart is telling you to go with Webb, his need of you too great to be ignored. You want to obey this command and ease the tension that is all-consuming and eating away at you. Hundreds of hands are pulling you in different directions and it is confusing and painful. In the end, though, you go with Harm. You don't think, don't reason, don't obey any command coming from any part of your body.

You just follow Harm.

It is not the easier route and the pulling still keeps you confused and off-balance. You don't control the words leaving your mouth, can barely remember what they are after they are released into the air. But it is clear they are meant to hurt. You need him to hurt like you do. Maybe you need him to understand.

As you hear your own words, it amazes you how flippant you sound. How careless. It is almost as if you are angry with the man that saved your life. Every offence committed. Every word not spoken. Every opportunity missed. It all snowballs into one single feeling... Anger. You are angry.

You just can't pinpoint the exact reason. Maybe there are too many to count.

Harm leads and you follow. There are no doubts, or hesitation as you steal that jeep, lie to the farmer, abscond with that plane. Before you are truly conscious of your actions, you are following a plan that magically formed between you and the man you can barely stand to look at. It almost seems effortless. Those missiles need to be stopped. Those terrorists need to be dealt with. Nothing else matters, but the lives at risk, the plot of mayhem and the denial cursing through your veins.

You are a Marine.

And this is war.

You are focused in that moment. You need not question your sanity, Harm's presence or Sadiq's vicious words. There is a goal to be met. Nothing else matters.

The sticks of dynamite are lit in your hands and keep disappearing. The sound of the explosion might be loud, but you hear nothing more than muffled vibrations. The heat of the flames are close enough to warm your cheeks and yet they are cold. You are very, very cold.

Maybe you panic when the planes starts to lose altitude. Maybe you scream in fear. Maybe you yell at Harm. Maybe... Maybe a lot of things. The reality is that you feel nothing as the trees rush to meet you, as the plane buckles, as the wings get clipped off, as the belly of their boat in dry land hits the dirt. One second, you are falling. The next, you are on the ground, looking at the back of Harm's head.

You reach forward and touch the sticky substance coating his hair and watch in fascination as red paints you fingers. Meaning eludes you. Your eyes stare, you hand stops in mid-air, your ears slowly capture the overwhelming sounds of the forest.

Straps hold you to the fallen plane and there is suddenly a desperate need to get free. You struggle, you panic, and when your feet hit the same dirt as the plane, you can't stop the adrenaline rush. You claw the stupid pregnant belly suit out, almost ripping the shirt you wear, you stumble away from the crash site. The copse of trees are closing in on you.

You need to leave.

So you leave. Another mission, another plan, another jeep that doesn't belong to you. If you keep moving, the insanity threatening to consume you is left behind, clinging to your shadow. At bay.

Nothing else matters but to keep moving.

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Review!


	3. The panic attack

**A/N:** So... it seems this is a story I am having a hard time writing. Not so much because I don't know where I'm going (it happens sometimes), but because it is such a different style than what I am used to writing in.

I hope you keep reading and letting me know what you think. Reviews always makeme feel guilty for not updating (hint, hint). =D

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**CHAPTER 3**

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The imperative to leave, to move, to do something other than being consumed by madness gets you through the confrontation with Harm - an awake Harm that is a bit woozy and shooting at you, but who is alive and well and next to you once more. It allows you to keep going through the motions as you change the blown out tire of the jeep you've commandeered and allows you strength as you reach civilization once more.

There is a wig and a bar and a man that tries to kill you and who already succeeded in killing the only source of information you and Harm know about. The night seems long as you drag your tired and sore body to the hotel room Clay and you had secured for this assignment.

You decide you need a bath and that suddenly becomes an imperative you need to accomplish as soon as possible. Water pours from the silvery faucet of the white claw tub and there is actually steam rising up into the air. You don't really know why you watch it with such rapt fascination, but your eyes refuse to move. You add bubble bath to the flowing water and it enthralls you how the greenish liquid is consumed by the outpour and how foam appears at the bottom. You are so very focused, so very trapped in the scene and inside your own mind that you don't realize the tub is almost overflowing.

You mean to move fast and prevent a watery accident, but your movements are sluggish. Have they been like this all day? Doesn't seem possible that you managed to blow out missiles and drive and talk if the world had been trapped in such slow motion. You are frowning still as you remove the dress you're wearing, and the underwear you don't even remember putting on. You step into the tub and the steaming bubbly water.

It is hot.

Actually, it is almost scalding and in some way, you can feel it, nearly burning your skin. That would require you to feel, though, and it becomes clear to you that you don't feel. There is only numbness, muffled sounds and a world that doesn't make sense anymore. Your hands are rubbing your arms, nails scratching the dirt out of your skin and all you can do is stare at the ceiling. The white, unimpressing ceiling.

You don't know how long you're there, bathing and staring. At some point, the bubbles turn flat, the foam dissipates. Fingers play in the surface with the few bubbles still left and it is in this exact moment, that a thought hits your brain like a lightening.

Harm is here.

Harm is _here._

You feel silly for thinking it, for it is such an obvious thing to think about. Of course Harm is here. You've seen him and touched him and talked to him. He flew that plane and shot in your direction as you brought the jeep to the crash site. He is, at this moment, in the room next door.

_Isn't he?_

Some of the fog which has been surrounding you clears. The sounds of the water swirling around you as you sit up, the colours of the floors tiles, the sticky wet hair in the back of your nape. All these little things seem more real than they had just a moment before.

Harm.

Now that you are more awake, more aware, you look around you dumbfounded. You know where you are and how you got there, but the memories of it happening seem fuzzy, seem false. The last clear thought you have is of knowing your own death, as Sadiq's men dragged you to that shack. So, it is no wonder, you question everything that came after.

Clay's rescue, Harm's timely appearance, Gunny.

A lump is in your throat and you find it hard to swallow, hard to breathe. You question your sanity, your memories and your own situation awareness. Are you really here? Or are you still there, strapped to that table, blocking the feel of those jump cables on your wet skin? Are you in pain, as your mind protects you from the harsh reality of death and blood and Clay's piercing screams?

You are breathing hard, trying to bring in air desperately. You are panting. You are hyperventilating. Your hands grip the tub, your nails dig into the porcelain. The white walls around you fade. You hear it again, Clay screaming. You want him to stop, to cover your ears not to hear it anymore. But you can't move. You are still strapped to that table. You are going to die

Harm hadn't come. Wouldn't have known where to find you if he tried. He is miles and miles away and cannot hear you scream for help. He can't save you. No one can. And maybe... maybe you don't want to be saved.

Your visions is blurry, but soon clears. Your hands let go of tub and are stiff from the exertion. Your breathing evens. You are certain that this room is not real, that the water surrounding you is not there, that the man next door is nothing but a figment of your mind. These are things you know. These are details you don't care about.

Madness is safer. Insanity is better.

You can live in this world that has no Sadiq, no missiles, no torture. Clay will heal - you'll help him. They'll leave this God forsaken land and go back home. They'll go back to work, back to normal. Back to the people they used to be. And the rest... well, that other world was lost to her now. Her Harm... her real Harm was gone. This one would have to do.

Your body leans back to the tub, water cool against your skin. You don't mind, of course. It is not really cold, your mind decides what you are to feel, to do. And you decide that it is still warm and comforting. You close your eyes and relax, embracing this reality wholeheartedly and allowing the fog to embrace you once more.

And then, there is knock on the door and Harm comes in.

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_Next... Harm. That's all I'm saying._


	4. The un-reality

**A/N:** More, as promised, without (too) much delay. Thank you all for reviewing and I hope you enjoy where I'm taking this.

_**ArmyDT42,** _you mentioned a Harm POV. As I'm exploring Mac's side, Harm won't have a voice yet. Maybe a companion fic will follow or maybe he'll steal the mike and talk anyway. Right now, the story is leading me more than anything else. So, we'll see.

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Chapter 4: The un-reality

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The fog is comforting, like a shield. You are not really there, you don't feel the water, or the cold and Harm is not staring at you or your naked body, which can be surely seen through the dissipated bubbles and clear water. There is no reason to worry or to feel self-conscious. So you don't. You observe calmly as the man before you stares and mutters something about you being beautiful.

Your mind is giving you something you have always wanted... an open Harmon Rabb.

It is not real, though, so you ignore it and focuses instead on the minute details of his face your mind has been able to capture and keep safe. The crinkles in the corner of his eyes, the play of color and depth of the blue iris of his eyes, the half smile just shy of concealment you never could figure out completely. These details call out to you... _I'm here! I'm real!_ And he does seem so very real, it breaks your heart to look at him. So, as he places the gun in the toilet beside you, your gaze shifts and refuses his.

You wanted to accept this new world, had made up your mind to forget about that shack, Clay's screams and the hopelessness of it all. You realize, though, that you can't. You deny reality, it being too painful to contemplate. But this cannot be your new reality if it starts to shift away from what you know, from what you want to know. Allowing your mind to play a script right out of a romantic movie would mean falling into Harm's warm embrace and never letting go.

It would be wonderful.

It would be empty.

That man in the living room can only be your Harm if you don't allow your own dreams and expectations to color his actions, his words, his decisions. If he stopped being that Harm, it would mean that you are truly lost and alone.

The thought leaves you cold in a way the water can't.

So you rise and wrap yourself around a towel - Harm would be shocked like an old granny if she chose to go _al naturale_ - and clutch the gun he left behind for you as if it is real and dangerous. You slip into your Marine persona and turns your attention to Clay, to Gunny, to the situation at hand. Anything but Harm's soulful eyes and Mac-imposed feelings.

It is safer in the dark, where the status quo lurks like an anchor keeping the little sliver of sanity you still possess from drifting in the sea of madness.

At the end of the day, you lie in bed. He is next to you. His body emits waves of heat and pulls you in like a magnet is strapped to your heart. You wonder if it isn't. You shift, trying to alleviate the hurt that the long days in Paraguay have managed to gather in your hip and knees. There is some attempt to keep quiet on your part, though you soon realize you don't want to be quiet. The silence is oppressing and makes it much too hard to breathe.

_Why, oh, why can't you just breathe?_

You miss Harm. You miss the man that can single-handedly make you mad and make you silly just by looking your way. You miss the stupid heroics and the non-committal answers. You miss the friend, the opponent in court, the smile across the bullpen after a hard day. You miss it all, every single detail of his face, of his tone of voice. You miss...

… _him._

You stare at the Harm your mind created and suddenly you can't look away. Your mind has finally come up with a plausible answer to him being there in South America and even though you know your created explanation is a mere reflection of Harm's words at the time of his brother's disappearance, you grasped it fiercely in your hands, desperate to believe it could be real. Desperate to forget the real word and get completely lost in this other world your subconscious has kindly created.

If it could all just make sense!

Words leave your mouth and you vaguely register the questions being fired from your mouth. Quitting the Navy, coming in alone to rescue her. How, when, why... The lawyer in you has left the soldier behind. You want answers that fit. You want a Harm _can _be real.

He evades and ducks and rolls away from you in typical Harm fashion. It is so reminiscent of a thousand other half conversations they had over the years that, for the first time, you allow yourself to believe. You are angry and happy and confused. You are feeling more in that moment than you have for the past two days. Sanity is finally admitting defeat and it is wonderful.

So you allow him to table your discussion, knowing that the topic of conversation will never be broached again. There is some sort of satisfaction blooming in your chest at that knowledge. It can mean going home, being safe, finding your way back to the beginning, before the world had turned upside down and dragged you to hell kicking and screaming.

There is a moment, when you see the man responsible for your torture, your insanity and the early demise of the soldier and the lawyer and the woman you used to be, that your certainty vanishes. He seems so real, much more than all the others, and you are sure, if only briefly, that he is the real Sadik, infiltrated in your mind, and plotting to pull you back to reality and that shack and that nightmare that was more real than the dream you have created.

So it is relief you feel when you don't catch him. One second he is there and the next he is gone, disappearing from your lives in a cloud of dust and mist and mystery. It is almost like you wished him away. A man with many faces. A faceless man in a crowd of faceless people. A blur that returned to the shadows whence it came, relinquishing its hold on you.

Reality receded back as well and you turn and you look at Harm and all is well again.

Until he stops being him and starts being you. And as he tries to unpause their talk from earlier, a conversation you were sure to have already been relegated to their cluttered past, you realize the importance of this moment. Understandably, you panic. You want the real Harm and there is only one way to keep him.

The word escapes your mouth and it feels right, for it is true. Never, ever can she allow them to change. Never is how long it'll take her to renounce the mirror image of Harm that is hers in favour of a man that would become a stranger and not hers at all.

_Never_.

_Don't you ever, ever leave me_, you catch yourself thinking as you walk away.

There is certainty in your heart that assures you of the rightness of your decision and your actions. You are sure it is relief. But you don't understand why there is also a deep ache in your chest as you walk away from him, when you have not let him go at all. You merely decided to keep him close forever. The tightness in your chest grows and it is all you can do, not to crumble to the floor.

You stay strong, though. He is worth your strength, even if he is only in your head. And you don't crumble or sob or cry. You want to, though. The whole in your heart is gapping and if you didn't know any better, you would have thought that the feeling was actually heartbreak.

It can't be, though. So, you walk away.

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That's the end of _A tangled webb, part 2._ What comes next will stear away from canon.

You've been warned.


	5. The sanity

**A/N: **An update, because I was inspired and because it was high time this Paraguay nightmare came to a, shall we say, close. Don't be fooled, though, much more to come.

This is unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine. Review!

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**CHAPTER 5**

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You are having leaps of time.

One moment, you are looking at Harm's broad back as you board the plane in Paraguay and the next you are staring at a series of bags spinning endlessly in the baggage claim. You watch your own brown suitcase pass you by three times before a long arm reaches past you and snatches it up for you. Harm is looking at you funny, but he doesn't say anything. You glance around yourself and recognizes Dulles Airport.

You missed the entire trip from South America to D.C.

There is a vague memory of the suitcase handle against you dry palm and the blur of crowds going by. Clarity only comes, though, when you find yourself facing a blonde haired woman with a very pregnant belly. You frown and you try to connect the dots. Nothing comes to mind, however. Nothing but the panic of being alone. She is asking you about Sadik, about that shack and you don't want to talk about it.

_Colonel Mackenzie?_, she calls to you. _Sarah?_, she tries once more. You hear her fine, but you find yourself trapped inside your own mind and can't seem to respond. One thing is certain... you don't ever want to talk about that place, ever again.

The world fades away once more and awareness only happens again as you find yourself facing the mirror in your own bedroom. A Marine Lieutenant Colonel is staring back at you, impeccably dressed. Strangely, she looks like you. You are sure, though, that she is not. You turn away from this apparition and glance around. Nothing seems changed or altered. Still, it is not the same.

It is not home.

For no apparent reason, you feel like crying. You don't. You simply close your eyes and breathe in deeply. When your eyes open once more, you are no longer in your apartment, but in the middle of the bullpen at JAG's headquarters. Maybe you should wonder about the periods of time you have no consciousness over. Maybe you should worry that time is escaping between your hands. It all seems inconsequential and empty. You mind is simply filling in the blanks that don't matter, until you can reach back the normalcy that once were.

Before Sadik, before the shack, before you lost the real Harm forever.

There are people smiling and welcoming you back. Familiar faces beam at you and you want to feel something, but you can't. A frown marks your forehead and you know it it there, but again, no feeling makes it back to your brain. The edges of your vision darken and you know that you are about to have another blackout.

It is the first time you fight it.

The Admiral appears and he looks different. No happy, not sad. His expression is guarded and observant and makes chills rise up your spine. You tremble, not out of cold, but out of fear. Something's wrong. A lump is suddenly in your throat and Harm is speaking, something about him resigning and wanting now to come back.

Chegwidden shakes his head in clear disappointment and the answer is no. You look to your right, then to your left and then at Harm. Everyone looks shocked. Everyone looks sad. Everything is wrong.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong...

You find yourself shaking your head. The lump in your throat grown into a pain in your chest and it is hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to stand. Your left hand reaches for Harm as he attempts to walk away, anger shining in his eyes, and your cold, uncooperative fingers grasps the sleeve of his grey suit.

It should be white. It should be blue. Anything but grey.

Tightly, you hold that sleeve and command your legs from collapsing. The darkness is back, though, and closing in fast. It is frightening and suffocating and you are almost sure a sob escaped your sore throat.

This is not supposed to happen like this, you keep telling yourself. This is not how the script should go. Why are you doing this to yourself, you scream, but no word leaves your mouth. The room starts spinning.

One second, Harm is looking at you with anger and disbelief.

Another, Sadik is over you, your body in agony, a cable coming towards you chest.

And then Harm is before once more. He no longer looks mad, but worried. His lips are moving and you are sure he is speaking, but only air and blood rushes through your ears. The noise and silence is deafening.

Harm disappears and you see the ceiling of the shack and feel more pain than you have ever known before. You are sure you scream, but you can't hear you own voice.

Harm appears in your vision, the pain never receding. The ceiling of the shack is behind his head and you want to cry, as reality and delusion crash. The feel of his sleeve in your hand is the only thing keeping you grounded as his face disappears once more. You don't want to go back to reality, don't want to face that shack and the end that is near for you and Clay.

So, you close your eyes and tighten them shut, still clutching the fabric of a grey suit you can no longer see. You hold your eyes closed as the pain increases and you feel the hot tears making track in the corners of your face. And, as you slowly lose consciousness, as you slowly embrace death, you waver between the cruelty of such a fate and the happiness of having seen, one last time, the man you love.

And then there is no more for you. Nothing but darkness and oblivion.


End file.
